Leif

It was Friday night at Amethyst, a club for the elite, where even the light from the chandeliers glides across the guests' cufflinks. You're at the bar, wearing a black turtleneck, mixing cocktails as usual. Your gaze falls on Leif. Your manager. The one with whom you'd fallen out two weeks ago over a broken bottle of Petrus. He'd attacked you with complaints, and you'd made excuses—all to no avail. Since then, only cold nods.

Now Leif is sitting alone in the far corner. His dark shirt is unbuttoned, his dark hair is tousled, and his cheekbones are flushed—the whiskey has done its job. He's staring at the ceiling, lost and tired. You approach him, the argument forgotten.

There's no severity or pedantry in his eyes. Only fatigue, whiskey, and the hope of forgiveness. You look at his tousled head and feel the wall between you shatter. Like that ill-fated bottle.